by J. R. Ward
As he took a deep breath, his first instinct was to take out his phone and call Gary McAdams to remove the limb and get that crushed tin can of hers off to a scrapyard. But he stopped himself. Lizzie was not the kind of woman who would appreciate that sort of maneuvering. She would have her own contacts, her own idea of how to handle the problem, her own plan for the Yaris.
Knowing her, she would try to get it back on its feet.
Shaking his head, he walked over to his car. The Porsche had very nearly been destroyed, too, the 911 missed by only a couple of feet. After clearing some leaves off the hood, he got in, juiced the engine, and made his way slowly down the lane, steering around the fallen branches and the divots in the dirt that were full of water. As soon as he hit the asphalt, he made up for lost time, speeding toward Charlemont, ripping across the river, gunning his way up Easterly's hill.
He was halfway to the top when he had to slow because another car was coming down.
It was a Mercedes sedan. Black S550.
And behind the wheel, in huge dark sunglasses and a black veil like she was in mourning, was his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Chantal did not look over at him even though she knew damn well who she was passing.
Fine. With any luck, she was relocating and they could let the lawyers take it from here. God knew he had enough other stuff to worry about.
Leaving the Porsche out front, he went in through the main entrance and paused when he saw the luggage in the foyer.
It wasn't Chantal's. She had matching Louis Vuitton. This was Gucci, and marked with the initials RIP.
Richard Ignatius Pford.
One asshole leaving, he thought. Another coming in.
What the hell was Gin thinking?
Oh, wait. He knew that answer. For a woman with little formal education and no professional skills, his sister had one unassailable talent: taking care of herself.
Spooked about money, she had gone along with their father and latched onto the wealthiest sap in town so that no matter what happened to the family, her style of living wouldn't be affected. He just hoped that the cost to her didn't prove to be too high. Richard Pford was a nasty little SOB.
Not his circus, not his monkeys, however. As much as it saddened him, he had long ago learned to give Gin her head and just let her go--there was no other strategy to deal with his sister, really.
Jogging up the stairs, he went to his room and showered, shaved, and seersuckered. It took him two tries to get the bow tie right.
Man, he hated the things.
He took the staff stairs back down, cut through the kitchen, and went to Miss Aurora's door. As he had when he'd come to see her earlier, he checked that everything was tucked in, buttoned properly, and as it should be before he knocked.
Except then he stilled. For some reason, he had an abject fear that she wouldn't answer the door this time. That he would rap his knuckles, and wait . . . and do it again, and wait some more . . .
And then he would have to break down the panels as he had with Rosalinda's office--and he would find another dead--
The door opened, and Miss Aurora frowned at him. "You're late."
Lane jumped out of his skin, but recovered fast. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm sorry."
Miss Aurora gave him a grunt and patted her bright blue church hat. Her outfit was as brilliant as a spring sky, and she had matching gloves, matching shoes, and a perfectly coordinated pocketbook that was the size of a tennis racquet. Her lipstick was cherry red, her earrings were the pearl ones he'd given her three years ago, and she was wearing the pearl ring he'd gotten her the year before that.
He offered her his arm as she shut her door, and she took it.
Together, they walked out through the front of the house, passing Mr. Harris, who knew better than to say anything about which door they were using.
Lane escorted Miss Aurora to the Porsche's passenger seat and settled her in the car. Then he went around, got behind the wheel, and restarted the engine.
"We're going to be late," she said crisply.
"I'll get us there on time. Just watch me."
"I don't abide by no speeding."
He found himself looking over at her with a wink. "Then close your eyes, Miss Aurora."
She batted at his arm and glared at him. "You are not too old to spank."
"I know you want a seat in the front pew."
"Tulane Baldwine, don't you dare break the law."
"Yes, ma'am."
With a sly grin, he hit the gas, shooting the 911 down the hill--and as he passed a quick glance in her direction? He found that Miss Aurora was smiling to herself.
For a moment, all was right in his world.
FORTY
The Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and the bright white of its clapboards stood out among the blocks and blocks of lower-income housing units that surrounded the place. Talk about pristine, though. From its carefully tended-to grounds to its freshly surfaced parking lot, from the flowering pots by the double front doors to the basketball courts out back, the place was as polished and cared for as something from a 1950s postcard.
And at twenty minutes of nine on a Sunday morning, it was teeming with people.
The instant Lane pulled in, the greetings came so fast and so many that he had to slow the car to a crawl. Putting both their windows down, he took hold of hands, called out names, returned challenges for pickup games. Parking in the back, he went around and helped Miss Aurora out; then he led her over to the sidewalk that ran down the side of the church's flank.
Children were everywhere, dressed in flouncing gowns and little suits, the colors as bright as crayon boxes, their behavior better than that of a lot of the grown-ups who came to the parties at Easterly. Everyone, but everyone, paused and spoke to him and Miss Aurora, checking in, catching up--and in the process, he realized how much he had missed this community.
Funny, he wasn't a churchgoer, but whenever he was home, he never failed to come here with Miss Aurora.
Inside, there were easily a thousand people, the rows of pews filled with the faithful, everyone talking, hugging, laughing. It was too early for the fans to get broken out, but they would come, usually in June. Down in front, there was a band with electric guitars, drums and basses, and next to them were the risers that would hold the gospel choir. And behind all that? The incredible organ pipes--the kind that could blow the doors and the windows and the very roof wide open--rose as if connecting the congregation directly to Heaven.
Max should be here, Lane thought. That brother of his had sung in the choir for years before he'd gone off to college.
But that was a tradition that was lost, seemingly forever now.
Two rows from the front there was space for them, a family of seven squeezing in to make room.
"Much obliged," Lane said, as he shook the father's hand. "Hey, aren't you Thomas Blake's brother?"
"Am, yes," the man said. "I'm Stan, the older. And you're Miss Aurora's boy."
"Yessir."
"Where you been? We haven't seen you here for a while."
As Miss Aurora cocked a brow to him, Lane cleared his throat. "I've been up north."
"My condolences," Stan said. "But at least you're back now."
"There's my nephews." Miss Aurora pointed across the aisle. "D'Shawne is playing for the Indiana Colts now. Wide receiver. And Qwentin beside him is center for the Miami Heat."
Lane lifted his hand as the two men caught Miss Aurora's eye. "I remember when they were playing in college. Qwentin was one of the best centers the Eagles have ever had, and I was there when D'Shawne helped us win the Sugar Bowl."
"They're good boys."
"All your family is."
The organ cranked up, and the band started to play, and from the narthex, the bloodred robed choir strode in, fifty men and women walking together, singing the processional. Behind them, the Reverend Nyce followed with his Bible to his chest, the tall, distinguished man meeting the eyes of
his flock, greeting them with honest warmth. When he saw Lane, he reached out and shook hands.
"Glad to have you back, son."
When it was time for everyone to settle back in their seats, Lane had the strangest feeling come over him. Disturbed, he reached over and took Miss Aurora's palm.
All he could think of was that tree limb falling the night before. The sight of Lizzie slumped in her car. The electric fear he'd felt as he'd dragged himself over those branches in the storm, screaming her name.
As the band struck up his favorite gospel song, he looked at the cross above the altar and just shook his head.
Of course it would be this one, he thought.
It was as if the church itself was welcoming him home, too.
Getting up to his feet with Miss Aurora, he started moving with the crowd, back and forth, back and forth.
He found himself singing along: "I want you to know that God is keeping me . . ."
*
An hour and a half later, the service ended and the Bubba hour started, the congregation going to the lower level for punch, cookies, and conversation.
"Let's go down," Lane said.
Miss Aurora shook her head. "I gotta go back. Work."
He frowned. "But we always--"
He stopped himself. There was nothing that needed tending to at Easterly. So the only explanation was one that made him want to call 911.
"Don't look at me like that, boy," she muttered. "This is not a medical emergency--and even if it was, I'm not dying in my church. God wouldn't do that to this congregation."
"Come on, take my arm again."
They were very nonchalant as they went against the crowd--and man, he really would have preferred to throw her into a fireman's hold and defensive lineman his way out of there. And then halfway to the door, he had to stop to talk to Qwentin and D'Shawne--along with seventeen other members of Miss Aurora's family. Ordinarily, he would have loved the conversation . . . not today. He didn't want to be rude, but he was very aware of how much Miss Aurora was leaning on his arm.
When they finally got out of the church, he said, "You wait here. I'll bring the car around. And no, I'm not arguing about it, so just stop."
He almost hoped she put up a fight, and when she didn't, he fell into a jog, heading for the very far reaches of the parking lot.
Coming back with the Porsche, he nearly expected to find her passed out cold.
Nope. She was talking with a very regal, slender woman, who had a face like Nefertiti, a modest suit that was black, and a set of rim-less glasses over her sharp eyes.
Oh . . . wow, he thought. Talk about a blast from the past.
Lane got out. "Tanesha?"
"Lane, how are you." Tanesha Nyce was the reverend's oldest daughter. "It's good to see you."
They embraced and he nodded. "Good to see you, too. You a doctor yet?"
"In residency here at U of C."
"What are you going into?"
"Oncology."
"She's doing the work of the Lord," Miss Aurora said.
"How's Max?" Tanesha asked.
Lane cleared his throat. "Damned if I know. I haven't spoken to him since he went out west. You know him, always a wild card."
"Yes, he was."
Awkward. Moment.
"Well, I'm going to get Miss Aurora back home," he said. "Nice to see you."
"You, too."
The two women spoke in hushed voices for a moment, and then Miss Aurora allowed him to escort her down the steps and to the car.
"What was that all about?" he asked as he drove them off.
"Choir practice next week."
"You're not in the choir." He glanced over when she didn't say anything. "Miss Aurora? Do you need to tell me something?"
"Yes."
Oh, God. "What."
She took his hand and didn't look at him. "I want you to remember what I said to you before."
"What's that?"
"I got God." She squeezed hard. "And I got you. I am rich beyond means."
She held his hand all the way back to Easterly, and he knew . . . he knew . . . she was trying to get him ready for what was coming. Realized, too, that that was why he had insisted on Edward seeing her yesterday when his brother had been at the house.
If only there were a way to get ahold of Max.
"I don't want you to go," Lane said roughly. "It's too damn much."
Miss Aurora stayed silent until they got to the base of Easterly's hill. "Speaking of leaving," she said, "I heard that Chantal moved out."
"Yes, I'm ending all that."
"Good. Maybe you and Lizzie will finally get on track. She's the one for you."
"You know, Miss Aurora, I agree. Now I just have to convince her."
"I'll help."
"I'll take it." He glanced over. "She said to tell you hello, by the way."
Miss Aurora smiled. "Was that when you left her this morning?"
As Lane sputtered and turned red as that Mercedes he'd bought her, Miss Aurora laughed at him in a kind way.
"You're a bad boy, Lane."
"I know, ma'am. That's why you have to stay here and keep me straight. I keep tellin' you that."
Instead of stopping in front, he went around to the back, because it was closer to her quarters. Pulling up to the rear door, he hit the brakes, cut the engine . . . and didn't get out.
Looking over at her, he whispered, "I'm serious. I need you to help me here, on earth--in this house, in my life."
God, it was impossible to ignore the fact that three days ago she had been barking at him that she wasn't going anywhere, but now, something had changed. Something was different.
Before she could say anything, the garage door went up and the chauffeur came out with the Phantom, that five-hundred-thousand-dollar car proceeding by them as it headed around to the front of the house.
"He is evil," Lane said. "That father of mine . . ."
Miss Aurora lifted her palms. "Amen."
"Where the hell is he going this morning?"
"Not to church."
"Maybe he's going after Chantal."
The instant he spoke the words, he cursed.
"What are you talking about?"
Lane shook his head and got out. "Come on, let's get you inside."
Not the way it went. When he went over and opened her door, she just sat there with her purse in her lap, and her gloved hands folded one over the other. "Tell me."
"Miss Aurora--"
"What did he do to you?"
"This is not about me."
"If it's about bringing back that horrible wife of yours, you bet your fanny it's about you."
Lane fought the urge to bang his head on the Porsche's hood. "It really doesn't matter--"
"I know she got rid of your baby."
As those dark eyes stared up at him, he cursed again. "Miss Aurora. Don't do this. Leave it. There are so many other things worth worrying about."
All she did was cock that eyebrow.
Lane sank down on his haunches. God, he loved her face, every crease and crinkle, each curve and all the straightaways. And he loved how she was as lady-like as they came, but strong as a man.
She and Lizzie were so alike.
"There are some things that aren't worth knowing, ma'am."
"And others you shouldn't keep to yourself."
For some reason, he found himself dropping his eyes, as if he had done something he should be ashamed of. "She's pregnant, Miss Aurora. It's not mine."
"Whose is it," she demanded.
The rest of the story was communicated silently--and the funny thing was, she didn't seem totally shocked.
"Are you sure?" she asked in a low tone.
"That's what she said. And when I confronted him? It was in his face."
Miss Aurora stared straight ahead, her brow furrowed so low, he could no longer see her eyes. "God will punish him."
"I wouldn't hold your breath for that." He rose up and offere
d her his hand. "It's getting hot out here. Come on."
Miss Aurora looked back into his eyes. "I love you."
It was her way of apologizing for what she knew they had all been through with their father. Not just this Chantal ugliness, but those decades of what had gone before, back when they were children.
"You know," he said, "I've never thanked you. For all those years of being there, I never . . . you held us together, me especially. You were always there for me. You are always there for me."
"God gave me that sacred job when he crossed my life with y'all's."
"I love you, Momma," he choked out. "Forever."
FORTY-ONE
The sound of the chainsaw in Lizzie's hands was so loud, she didn't hear the car approach. And it wasn't until she let up on the gas and the thing's engine fell to a mutter that a very sexy male voice announced she was no longer alone:
"You are the hottest woman I have ever seen."
Twisting around and looking down, she found Lane leaning back against his Porsche, arms crossed, feet planted, expression intense.
From her vantage point on the mangled roof of her Yaris, she lifted the chainsaw over her head and pumped it a couple of times. "Hear me roar."
"Hear me beg."
She had to laugh as she jumped off to the ground. "I've made some good progress, don't you think--"
Lane cut her off by putting his mouth on hers, the kiss getting so hot, so fast, that he ended up bending her nearly backward. When he finally let up a little, they were both panting.
"So . . . hi," he said.
"Did you, by any chance, miss me?"
"Every second." He straightened them up. "God, I love y--I love the way you handle that chainsaw."
It was impossible not to catch his slip--and she had to stumble in her own mind as an instinct to float out an ILY struck her as well.
Lane covered up the awkwardness with aplomb, however. "So I really did bring dinner. Takeout from the club. I got you that salad you hopefully still like, and a crap load of tenderloin--you know, just in case we need it to recover."
"From what," she drawled as she put her chainsaw down.
"Oh, you know what." Except then he frowned. "Unless you're . . . you know, sore from last night."
Lizzie shook her head. "No."
"Pity."
"Excuse me?"
Coming in close, his mouth lingered on hers and he licked at her lips. "I was thinking I could kiss it and make it better."
"You can do that anyway."
As he pivoted her around and eased her against his car, she felt her heart start to soar--and figured, what the hell, she might as well let herself go. A tree had killed her car, her front yard was a mess, and there was a small forest of limbs down all over her property . . . but Lane was here, and he'd remembered she liked that Cobb salad, and damn it, he was the best kisser on the planet.
